


English, Symmetrical, 59 moves

by karasov



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: F/M, Gen, No versions need apply, One Shot, somebody please restage this in 2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karasov/pseuds/karasov
Summary: The chess game ends. Florence makes a decision. Anatoly drinks.
Relationships: Anatoly Sergievsky/Florence Vassy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	English, Symmetrical, 59 moves

The lights were still on, but the noise of the crowds was still there, receding like the tide in her ears. Everything was too close; the voices too brassy in their rise and fall. She felt the press of space as it shrank around her, collapsing towards her. Florence took a step forward into the shadows of the fluorescent lights, scrubbing her eyes with the back of her hands.

She could hear the voices of the journalists as they pelted Anatoly with questions, lightning quick darts and jabs. But after his damning initial statement, he hadn’t made a single response. Instead she heard the low voices of his bodyguards answering questions. Her Russian wasn’t that hot, but even she understood what “Nyet voprosov” meant. And just in case any reporters covering the hottest chess beat since Fischer versus Spassky had also missed Russian class, nobody could mistake the bodyguards’ knitted eyebrows and outstretched, blocking hands. 

Slowly, too slowly, the noise began to fade. Anatoly had disappeared, hemmed in on all sides by boom mikes, zoom lenses, and a phalanx of men in black suits. The collective crowd had oozed to the door one pseudopod at a time, hundreds of empty feet away.

She leaned against the podium, feeling shockingly drained. Around her, the staff had started to disassemble the tables. She backed away quickly as the stage was cracked in half and then again, torn into plywood strips before she could blink her sandpapered eyes. When was the last time she had slept? After Murano, surely, but all she could remember were piles of notebooks, scribbled shorthand, counters on the board as she planned strategy.

She stared at the workers blankly.

_Anatoly in bed underneath, her strong arms pinning his in place. There had been faint freckles on his shoulders and neck, pale dots against paler skin marching up his arms only to stop short at the invisible line of his shirt. His skin was cool against her lips and hands, and his brown eyes watched her with the same quiet confidence he advanced pieces during their strategy sessions._

Maybe it had been a few days, after all.

A loud ripping sound startled her, and she looked up to see sunlight filtering through the grimy windows as the cheap vinyl covers were torn off. The auditorium was rapidly being stripped down to its original self; the carpets were gone, the projector had disappeared, and two men were eying the podium she stood next to with interest. She backed away further.

_He had smiled up at her, in that creaky hotel bed, a lopsided smile that hid his crooked front tooth. She knew, without asking, that he had practiced that smile over and over again until it hid the flawed tooth. But the smile worked, like anything Anatoly practiced. And she had laughed and reached for him, put her hands on that cool skin and drew her mouth down to that calculated smile._

The noise of the staff had, impossibly, stopped. Florence looked up, startled by the absence of sound, to find herself alone.

The auditorium was bare now, white walls reflected on plain white tile. The harsh lights had been turned off, with watery afternoon sunlight struggling to make up the difference. Her shadow stretched thin and short against the floor.

Only then did Florence Vassy sink down into a crouch, head pressed against her knees, and weep. 

***

The jet engines spun up slowly on the plane. Anatoly slouched against the seat, seatbelt tossed carelessly out of the way. He cradled a glass of whiskey in one hand, the ice half melted. Moscow must be pleased, he thought sourly. The last time this plane had been sent was Bangkok, when they had wanted to show off the mirrors and gold trim and their pet champion. He scratched at the trim with his other hand, unsurprised when it flaked off.

Across him Molokov smiled into paperwork, briefcase open as he wrote his latest update.

“Wheels up,” said the pilot over his shoulder. “We have clearance for Moscow.”

Anatoly took a long drink of the cheap whiskey, letting the melted ice cut the burn.

Despite his best efforts with the alcohol, he could still feel his whole body when the plane leapt into the air. Did she see him somewhere, on the ground? Did she look up and follow the little plane as it banked across the sky?

“Stop moping,” said Molokov. “I’m busy planning our victory tour. Moscow, St. Petersberg, a detour in Sochi for the summer season.” He looked up, hand resting on the top of the briefcase. The signet ring on his little finger flashed as he beckoned. “And you, of course, will be our proud comrade. Your daughters would like to come as well, I think? The happy family, reunited.”

He stared back at his handler’s eyes, understanding exactly what was expected of him. These games, he had understood for a long time.

“Shove off, Sasha,” he said, waving the hand that held the glass distractedly at the other man. “You can have me back in four hours.” And he slouched further in his seat, staring out the window until the sunlight glancing off the windows made him wince.

Molokov watched him thoughtfully over his paperwork, but said nothing more.

***

Miles away, Florence Vassy dried her eyes, re-threading her ponytail by feel until it lay tight against her head. Then she stood up, brushed off her white dress, and strode away, her mind already spinning through the consequences of today as she strode to the well-marked exit.

Anatoly re-defected, Freddie his usual brilliant mess, half visionary, half lost child. She knew all the major players in this round, and none were fit to set the board after those two. Florence preferred a winner and had picked both her champions with care.

No one was there to see her stop, hand on the door handle, a sudden light in her eyes. It had taken her long enough to run through the permutations, to anticipate the flanking moves. 

***

A sudden change in air rocked the little plane until Anatoly’s remaining ice clinked in the glass, the splash of whiskey left sloshing in protest. Then the turbulence smoothed out, the plane climbing higher in the sky.

***

With the dispute in the world championship, there’d be some wiggle room. It would be tight, but she could manage it. London, Paris, maybe Curacao? No time to waste. Dust swirled in the last of the afternoon light in the auditorium as she pushed through the door. Florence pulled the door shut behind her with a brisk tug.

That empty Grandmaster title wouldn’t wait for long.


End file.
